


A Worn Seam

by jumponvaljean (whoatherejavert)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, this is not a fandom it's a serious problem
Genre: DON'T ASK ME why javert is always bleeding in these fics because I DON'T KNOW, M/M, Madeleine Era, it is a mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoatherejavert/pseuds/jumponvaljean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Utterly inspired by the wonderful work of tumblr user hamstr. Go look at “at the end of the day” (link in notes)<br/>because I just have a lot of feelings about Javert doing his own needlework okay? Originally posted to tumblr, now here.</p><p>So basically Javert is mending a seam of his uniform and being precious about it and it might get a bit smutty please just go look at the picture because that’s what it is with added boner thoughts and no I’m not joking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Worn Seam

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [At the End of the Day (fanart)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/19399) by Hamstr. 



“Merde.”

Javert glares at the needle he holds. A drop of blood wells up from the pinprick on his forefinger and he wipes it away with his thumb. Pulling the thread taut once more he repositions the needle and resumes his task. He is careful now to keep his fingers steady.

The seam is worn, not torn. The thread has loosened at the apex of his shoulder allowing an unseemly gape of his white undershirt if he moves the arm too quickly or stretches too far. Javert has already given his silent thanks that the air in Montreuil-Sur-Mer is not so mild as the season should dictate; his overcoat, buttoned tightly over the course of the day, has kept his secret for him.

He looks now at the half-sewed seam with a sense of pride. It is testament to his commitment, he tells himself. He completes a stitch and pulls it tight. It is testament to his hard work. Another stitch. Yes, it is testament to his conviction that he has almost undone the very threads of the heavy woollen material through complete and dedicated pursuit of his duty. The needle pauses.

It is testament to his empty pockets that he must mend it himself.

He sighs gently. His stitches will hold, of course, they always do – the sheer amount of time taken ensures they are passably neat and for the most part even – but to his own eye they appear heavy-handed. He runs his gaze over the other small assistances the coat has suffered under his hands. A cluster of stitches by the inner collar, a button held fast by the wrong colour thread… it is not the precise, practised work of a seamstress by any means, but it is a labour of love. Of duty.

And of course, who but himself will ever see the inside of the garment?

Javert pauses.

Why, at that thought, do the brown eyes of Monsieur le maire leap unbidden to his mind?

He does not realise that his left hand has risen to his neck to finger the rosary hanging there until the coat on his lap slips to the floor. The buttons click loudly on the wooden floor; the noise startles him but his hand does not leave the beads. His thoughts drift.

Javert is not in the habit of receiving gifts. His possessions are meagre but plentiful for his needs – he owns only what he must, and sentimentality has little purpose in his life. He rolls the beads of the rosary though his fingers. So it is a sense of obligation, he tells himself, that leads him to don the necklace each day under his uniform, and it must be devotion – to his job, of course – that allows him to take comfort in its small weight upon his chest each day.

He cannot deny the fact that is outright blasphemy, however, the things he imagines when it is clasped tight in his hands.

He drops the pendant hastily and bends to retrieve the coat. Settling it back on his knee he finds his place and rethreads the needle after only a few attempts. As he works he attempts to ignore that the heat of his hand has set the rosary hot against his skin; he focuses on the needle alone, pressing it firmly to the fabric and pushing, pulling through and tugging tight. He falls back into the rhythm easily.

Press, push, pull, tug. Press, push, pull, tug. Press. Push. Pull. _Tug_.

And his thoughts return to the mayor.

 _Press._ Madeleine’s lips on his, forceful and demanding—

 _Push._ The feel of Madeleine’s body against his, strong hands on his shoulders forcing him down, down—

 _Pull._ Hands scrabbling at Madeleine’s trousers, Javert kneeling and desperate and panting—

 _Tug._ Hands in his hair, fingers gripping tight and—

He cannot hold back a moan, his eyes shut tight and his hands clenched into the bunched material of his coat. It takes Javert a great amount of effort to calm his harsh breaths, an even greater effort to steady the heartbeat that pounds beneath the rosary. When he opens his eyes he is surprised to see he has completed his work. The seam is fixed, and the last stitch is the neatest of all. It is precise and straight, holding the two edges fast. It is a fine stitch.

Javert knows immediately that this single stitch will burn under his coat like the rosary each time he stands before Monsieur le maire – he knows this and, with the sorry conviction of a man well past saving, he welcomes it.


End file.
